


It's Always Darkest Before the Dawn

by badlifechoices



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fix-It of Sorts, I suppose, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:39:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6763726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badlifechoices/pseuds/badlifechoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce has never had a soulmark. So when he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror one morning to find the black mark curled over his hip, he’s sure it has to be another cruel joke fate is playing on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Always Darkest Before the Dawn

Bruce has never had a soulmark. In a world where only about half of the population are born with those marks somewhere on their body that indicate the existence of that one precious person meant to be their other half, it isn’t anything particularly out of the ordinary. He’s never wasted much thought on the matter, never understood why the papers were so obsessed with knowing whether Gotham’s most eligible bachelor had a soulmate of his own. Dick has one and Bruce has only ever felt happy for the boy whenever he spotted that little mark nestled between his shoulder blades like an artful tattoo. The kid deserved it, deserved finding someone to match his undying spirit and determination.

Sometimes he thinks it fitting that the batman doesn’t have a soulmate. He’s a solitary figure, meant to be alone and independent. He thinks that it’s good that there isn’t someone out there hoping for their perfect happy ending, for a white picket fence, a house and kids because it’s something that Bruce could never give them. He doesn’t dare to hope that there will be a happy ending for him. The world he lives in is dark, the shadows clinging to his soul have eaten away too much of him. People have asked him if he is missing something, missing that part of him that is meant to be his soulmate. But with everything he has lost how could he be able to tell the difference? How would he know if that hole in his chest is supposed to be filled by a person destined to be with him or if it’s just the void his choices, his _failures_ have left behind?

So when he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror one morning to find the black mark curled over his hip, he’s sure it has to be another cruel joke fate is playing on him. He doesn’t understand it, can’t comprehend why it would appear now of all times. He traces the spiralling lines with his fingertip, shivers at the warmth the touch sends through his body and curses himself for the twinge of excitement that pulls at his chest. He pushes it down, pulls his hand back as though the mark has burnt him and turns away from the mirror. It’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong. If the mark only appeared now it must mean that his soulmate has only been born. Cradle robber, he can hear them calling him. He’s already in his late forties now, he’ll be past fifty when his soulmate is old enough to even seek him out. And surely, no young person in their right mind would even want an old man as their soulmate, destiny or not.

He ignores it, forces himself to focus every time his mind starts to wander. Every now and then he will find his hand brushing against the spot on his hip and it fills his mind with disgust. If he was indifferent about the whole soulmate thing before he despises it now. He begins to resent everything about it, feels anger bubbling up in his chest every time someone brings up the topic and has to swallow down the bitterness in his throat whenever his gaze falls upon one of those obnoxiously happy couples openly displaying their marks.

Months pass and his mood grows even darker, leaves him brooding in the familiarity of the Batcave for hours on end. He feels a hint of guilt for making Alfred worry but he can hardly voice his thoughts, can’t tell his faithful butler and friend about the conflicting emotions occupying his mind. He wants to forget about it, needs to clear his head before it drives him insane but it seems as though the mark itself fights each of his attempts to distract himself. Sometimes it feels warm against his hand, a comforting warmth like the feeling of another body close to his own. Sometimes it’s cold, sending shivers down his spine as a feeling of utter dread tears at his heart. Most times he doesn’t feel it at all, a void that leaves him aching and he finds himself checking more often than he’ll admit even to himself if it’s still there. It always is, right there on his hip glaring at him like it’s blaming him for something he can’t name.

Bruce doesn’t understand why his heart suddenly aches when Dick shows him the footage of the Red Hood, can’t identify the feeling clouding his thoughts. He knows he has to find this criminal, has to stop him and it is the sheer intensity of that thought that scares him. Maybe he’s finally lost it, has finally become more Batman than Bruce Wayne.

 

 

The mark feels cold against his fingers that night and he tries to escape the fear gnawing at his insides. But no matter how fast he drives it won’t disappear like it usually does after a while. There is something else at the back of his mind, a haze of thoughts and feelings that don’t feel like they belong to him but it seems as though every time he focuses on deciphering the mess it grows more faint. He follows the Red Hood, heart beating erratically in his chest as their chase leads him from rooftop to rooftop. The familiar streets beneath him are too far away, blur out of focus as his conscious narrows until there’s only one thought left on his mind. He corners him, the cold of the pouring rain seeping through his waterproof armour.

And suddenly he’s burning. His skin set aflame, waves of heat washing over his body originating in that spot over his hipbone. They’ve stopped running, only a few feet separating them now and still it feels too much. Something inside him is drawing him, forcing him to move like a puppet controlled by invisible strings. There’s a sound, a gasp muffled by the helmet. The Red Hood has dropped his gun, hand clutching his chest instead and he looks as though he’s going to keel over. Bruce doesn’t notice that he’s taken a step forward until he hears the splashing of the water under his boot. The Red Hood retreats, stumbling. There’s nothing left of the grace he moved with before now. He looks insecure, hesitant, overwhelmed. It almost makes Bruce laugh, laugh through the electricity that is coursing through his veins and the confusion settling heavily on his thoughts.

“Bruce.” The voice cuts through the night like a knife, cuts through Kevlar and skin until it buries itself in his chest. That voice is familiar and at the same time it isn’t. It feels like coming home from a long trip, like something he has thought lost long ago and that he has finally found again.

“Who are you?” He grits out, clenching his fists because he’s letting down his guard. But the other doesn’t look like he’s in any condition to fight him right now, not with the way that gloved hand is still gripping the fabric of his jacket as though he needs something to hold onto.

The answer is a bitter laugh that leaves him aching. “You really don’t know? You disappoint me, I expected you to have it all figured out by now.” Bruce can only watch motionlessly as the other finally moves, hand coming up to the helmet. And then it’s out the way and Bruce can finally _see._

He’s staring at the features like he wants to burn them into his memory. They’re different, hardened. There are lines he doesn’t know, lines that whisper stories of pain and disappointment into his heart. But they’re still so terribly familiar. _Jason._ The word is burning his tongue and yet it doesn’t leave his lips. He swallows around the lump in his throat, opens his mouth and closes it again as his racing thoughts slam to a halt. He can do nothing but stare, eyes searching the other’s face for a sign of the boy he used to know. There’s nothing, nothing but hurt and resentment and the same surprised confusion that keeps him frozen in place.

“I didn’t think it would be you.” Something flickers over Jason’s face, a hint of vulnerability maybe. A sadness that makes Bruce want to reach out. He wants to bury his hand in those dark locks, wants to draw him in and hold him close. “Why does it have to be you?”

Bruce tears his eyes off the boy’s face, stares at the puddle of rainwater beneath his feet. “I’m sorry.” The words taste bitter, cold as does the mark on his hip.

He needs, he longs to look up but he is scared of what he will find in those eyes. He can’t stand the anger, the pain that linger at the back of his mind.

“Yeah.”

Bruce doesn’t try to stop him when Jason leaves. He has no right to, not after everything he has done and everything he hasn’t. There is no thought of stopping the Red Hood left, the need to find him overshadowed by the guilt. He doesn’t look up until he can no longer hear the sound of footsteps. The rooftop is empty, only the helmet is still there, the dark eyes staring accusingly at him. He moves to pick it up but hesitates before his fingers brush against the red metal. In the end he leaves it behind.

 

 

The Red Hood disappears like he has shown up in the first place, leaving behind no trace but the strange cold that continues to seep into Bruce’s body from the soulmark on his hip. He asks it for forgiveness in Jason’s stead, brushes his fingers over the darkened skin every so often.

He doesn’t dare to hope, throws himself into his work but he’s not trying to distract himself this time.  Maybe he should be more concerned about how easily he gets used to it, to the way his body and mind yearn for that something the mark promises. The longing doesn’t cease, it only grows stronger with every day, gnawing at the back of his mind.

 

 

It's embarrassing how quickly he panics when the mark suddenly starts to hurt. Something is tugging at him and before he knows it, he’s left the meeting room, hurrying past all those important people he couldn’t care less about. He hears Lucius calling out for him but he barely registers it. He takes the stairs because the elevator is too slow. Every traffic light that stops him on his way seems to be taunting him, has his hands tighten their grip around the steering wheel. He doesn’t notice they’re trembling until he’s climbing out of the car in the driveway of the manor. His heart is beating too fast, chest too tight and his mind racing. He climbs the stairs leading up to the front door two steps at a time, pushing his key into the lock with pure force.

The world that has been moving too fast only split-seconds before crumbles around him. His feet are frozen in place. The door slams shut behind him as he exhales a breath that he hadn’t noticed he was holding. His eyes focus on the person standing in the foyer. The boy has his hands buried in his pockets, shoulders drawn up. He looks too young, too lost in the large entrance hall, in his too wide red hoodie. Bruce’s breath hitches when he turns around and those blue eyes suddenly bore into his. He can’t decipher the look on Jason’s face, can’t read in the lines around his mouth or the way his brows furrow.

“Alfred let me in.” His words are too defensive, like he needs to prove that he belongs, that he’s not just an intruder in this place he once called home. Bruce doesn’t know how to respond. He wants to chase away the uncertainty on the boy’s features, wants to soften those lips into the smile he longed for.

He moves before his mind can catch up with his body’s actions, crossing the distance separating them with a few long strides. He doesn’t know who reaches out first, doesn’t know who pulls the other in. All he knows is that suddenly there is no space left. His fingers tangled in Jason’s soft hair, forcing him closer and angling his head up until their lips crash in a moment of desperate need. Jason’s fingers tug at his jacket, clinging to the fabric like a drowning man would to a lifeboat. The moment lasts forever and at the same time it’s too short, over too quickly and he feels cold disappointment wash over him when they separate again. “Jason.” He rasps, desperately trying to find words for any of the thoughts in his head. “Jay, I…”

A hand is pressed to his mouth, cutting him off. “Don’t.” The boy whispers, eyes wide with that same hurt and uncertainty that Bruce fears so much. “Just don’t. Not now.” Jason mumbles and for a second Bruce thinks that he will leave and disappear again. Panic bubbles up in his chest at the thought only to be replaced with surprise when the boy wraps his arms around him instead. “Don’t say anything.” It’s a whisper, too gentle for those chapped, kiss-bruised lips. Bruce’s arms come up to his shoulders when Jason buries his face in his chest. The panic bleeds out of him, so does the tension that has kept his shoulders squared. It’s enough, he thinks as he buries his nose in Jason’s hair and breathes in that strangely comforting scent of shampoo and cigarette smoke.

This is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> because I've been thinking too much about soulmates these days also yes I'm still working on that longer thing I promised


End file.
